


Surrounded by Red, Bathed in Blood and Passion

by Nasobem



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Grantaire Angst, M/M, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, implied depression, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasobem/pseuds/Nasobem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Photography AU in which Enjolras reluctantly models because Money and Grantaire pines from behind the camera.</p>
<p> >He’s still ridiculously attractive- which is why they hired him despite his, uh, attitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrounded by Red, Bathed in Blood and Passion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lina/gifts).



> Because Lina and I came up with stupid AUs and headcanons and then I fell on my keyboard.
> 
> Warnings: mention of alcohol abuse, self harm, depression and generally Grantaire being fucked up, because I like to make him suffer.  
> Also vaguely non-consensual cuddling. And cliches till you drop because fuck you I do what I want.

Red, Grantaire thinks. Enjolras would look gorgeous in red. Surrounded by red. Bathed in blood and passion.

Unfortunately he’s just wearing some boring sweater right now, a blue one over that. He’s still ridiculously attractive- which is why they hired him despite his, uh, attitude- but as far as Grantaire is concerned that burning hot passion that he snatched a glimpse of earlier shouldn’t be smothered by blue. It should be fuelled so that he could catch it with his camera.

“Spread your legs a bit more,” Grantaire says, letting go of his quite vivid fantasy for now. “Hands in the pockets, chin up. Jesus, are you trying to impersonate a corpse because damn, you’re doing a pretty good job at it.”

“Excuse me,” Enjolras snaps, “for not looking too lively while losing all of my dignity and supporting a corrupt and despicable- “

Snap, snap, snap. “Thanks, that’s it.”  
Grantaire gives him a wide smile. Those last pictures are by far better than all the others and, if he may say so, might just earn him a cover page. Then again he’ll probably get that either way. Apollo is the prettiest thing that has happened to this particular fashion brand in a while and everyone knows it. Even more important is what they don’t know: if they’ll ever get him again.

 

When they had shown him the law student’s file the other week he had practically begged them to get to do the shoot. He had come to the studio in the middle of Enjolras giving a passionate speech about how much he despised the fashion industry and all the little details of what was so desperately wrong with it. If anything, that had made  
Grantaire even more eager. What can he say; he’s a sucker for guys who know how to use their mouth. In every possible meaning.

 

Anyways, he’s just scrolling through his photos deciding which ones are the best when Enjolras comes up to him, looks over his shoulder and watches him work with quick fingers. Grantaire can feel the other man’s breath on his shoulder. 

When he gets to his favourite pictures he can hear Enjolras take a sharp intake of breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he says to Grantaire who very deliberately doesn’t turn around, “I kind of screwed those up, didn’t I?”

It’s hard not to laugh at that. “Don’t worry, Apollo,” Grantaire hums, “Anger is very sexy on you.”

He smirks over his shoulder and Enjolras recoils as if he hit him. “Well, you provoked me,” Enjolras defends himself for no reason. “Would have been your problem anyways.”  
Then he stomps off, irritated yet beautiful and intimidating even when sulking like a five year old. Part of Grantaire wants to braid flowers into that golden mane.

 

Later he remembers with a sudden jump of his heart that Enjolras’ file has his number in it. 

Maybe, he thinks, if he is smart about it, he’ll get his Apollo in red after all.

 

(The next morning his high still hasn’t worn off, and he doesn’t take his antidepressants for the first time in years.)

 

He has a moment of panic when it’s not Enjolras who answers the phone. The owner of the phone however, Courfeyrac, is delighted to hear of Grantaire’s plan and immediately swears to do what he can. 

“This,” he crows, “Is amazing. He’ll still get money, right?” 

Grantaire winces. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, he’ll get his money.” He doesn’t say that he’ll have to borrow it from someone until he can sell the photos or something. “It’s just not actually, uh, for the magazine?” There is a moment of silence one the other end. 

“I’m an artist, not a pervert, by the way,” Grantaire clarifies then. “It’s completely, uh. Well. Mostly professional.”  
At that, Courfeyrac laughs. “I see,” he says with an audible grin, “Someone’s got a little crush besides the purely artistic interest. That’s cool. Should Enjolras let you into his panties we would greatly appreciate him getting the fuck that he so desperately needs.”

They plot some more, and then Grantaire starts planning the costume part, because damn him if he doesn’t get Apollo into some fitting attire.

After all, what does he have a friend at the local theatre for if not for this?

 

Eponine is obviously very much done with his shit. “Is this one of your kinky…things again?” she asks him, not even hiding her disgust. “Because you are not getting any bodily fluids over my costumes. Not happening, ever.”

Grantaire has the decency to act shocked. “Jesus, no, ‘Ponine, it’s for, uh, my job. Sort of. They’re not gonna get dirty at all and I’ll even give you prints of the photos. Please?” 

He gives her the puppy eyes, the look that used to be reserved for her attempts at keeping him sober. It’s a low blow and he knows it, but he adds: “You were the one who told me to get a life, get a proper job, now you won’t help me with it. Seems like it’s not all that important-“

Eponine groans loud enough to interrupt him. “R, if you’re really gonna pull that card- you know what, I don’t even care. Okay. You get the fucking costumes, but I swear to God, if you hurt them I will make you pay. This is a theatre, not a costume rental.” She turns around and heads into the green room before he can even thank her properly. 

For a while Eponine stands still in the middle of the room. “Red, you said, huh?” She mumbles to herself. “Red and possibly historical. Red, red, red…” 

She opens door after door, pulling out hems and sleeves and frilly things with lace. Suddenly she makes an excited noise and throws several pieces of clothing at him, including a red xylophone vest that will look absolutely smashing on Enjolras and vaguely historical looking pants, boots and a wide long shirt with a criminally deep V-neck and crossed lacings. Grantaire drools a little at the thought of getting Enjolras in these clothes.

 

He thanks Eponine with a long hug and the promise of taking her out to dinner someplace fancy at some point. She rolls her eyes, knowing all too well that he won’t, and then shushes him out and tells him how much he owes her anyways. “I’ll be waiting for pictures of Lover boy!” she calls after him. “Even if he’s naked.”

 

A couple of his friends help him find an abandoned warehouse, all red brick and dusty stripes of light. It’s perfect. Grantaire comes there early in the morning to start hammering ripped red cloths to the walls and arranging some really old furniture and setting up his camera.  
Enjolras arrives just as the clock strikes twelve. He is as grumpy as the last time, but- or so Grantaire hopes- amazed by the background. 

“No one else?” he asks after taking a look around. Grantaire just shakes his head and walks over to give him the clothes. “Put that on.”  
It’s very quiet. Grantaire is texting Eponine while Enjolras is getting dressed behind him. There is tension in the air, a wonderfully spiked atmosphere that will hopefully show on Enjolras’ face.

 

When Enjolras is ready, Grantaire leads him to the little set. “If you were to hold a speech or something, how would you do that here?” he asks him with a small smile. Enjolras  
frowns, but looks around and finally settles with one foot on a chair. As soon as he straightens up every muscle screams authority and power. Grantaire pushes one of the flags in Enjolras’ hands and then goes behind the camera.

“What’s up with the costume, by the way, isn’t that a little, uh old-fashioned?” Enjolras calls out, but Grantaire doesn’t – can’t – answer him. Instead, he thinks a little, staring intently at Enjolras, at the hint of confusion lingering in his eyes, the defiance. “Tell me…” Grantaire starts, trying to observe every fiber of Enjolras at once, “Tell me about our government, Apollo.” He accompanies the words with a cocky smile, a provoking tone – and it works.

Oh, how it works.

It’s like he pressed a button. Enjolras is off, starts talking, and Grantaire almost wishes he could record it because damn, that shit is all bites and stabs, vicious and hard as steel, words that would make politicians weep and poets sigh.

 

(It’s a bit sad, really, that even words like that will never really change anything.)

 

But what he can capture, what Grantaire can show in his work is the fire in his eyes, the outrage and rage, the yearning for a better world. A few words here and there to bring out one more edge, one more feeling are all Grantaire has to do. 

Enjolras is so beautiful it is almost painful. One fist clenched tightly in the red cloth Grantaire gave him, one gesturing, painting a world about to dawn. His blond locks try to escape his pony tail, strands falling in his face and over his shoulders and surrounding him like a fiery halo, accentuated by the warm sunlight and making Grantaire think of the Sun God for the thousandth time. 

 

Grantaire has him kneel then, hair free now and messy and still Enjolras is as proud and strong as standing tall. Grantaire wants to tie him up and strip him, not only of his clothes but also of all those emotional layers he can see right now. That, however, will probably have to stay a fantasy for now.

Instead he gets him to sprawl out over the biggest chair, a throne almost considering its size, with eyes closed and red roses in his hair and between his long, slender fingers, the embodiment of sin if you ask Grantaire. His feminine features and the long golden hair falling over one shoulder in a loose braid will make men question their sexuality, while his almost bare chest and the strong arms that show after Grantaire made him roll up his sleeves for the sake of his delicate wrists and beautiful hands will make women’s hearts beat quicker.

Grantaire wishes so desperately to kiss him in that moment that he almost forgets to take pictures. When Enjolras tips back his head some more and in doing so shows off his deliciously pale throat, Grantaire can’t help but draw in a stuttering breath. The next second, Enjolras opens his eyes just that much and Grantaire’s excellent reflexes gift him his favourite picture so far. The hot gaze he gets from under half lidded eyes gives him goose bumps and will haunt him in his dreams for quite some time.

 

After the shoot, Enjolras hesitates before leaving. “This was. Uh,” he says, slowly and biting his lips, and this must be really hard for him to say, “This was actually pretty- uh. I mean. I didn’t dislike it.” Then he turns around and walks away.

 

As Grantaire had guessed – to some extend –, he gets a shit ton of money for the pictures. Mostly private people, Eponine’s theatre, until one magazine featuring uprising young models pays him an embarrassing amount to get it for their cover page. A pattern is starting to show with the whole cover page thing, Grantaire thinks. Soon after that he starts getting requests- since no one can reach Enjolras after Courfeyrac changed his number. Not before giving Grantaire the new number, he notes smugly.

 

(He has a mild panic attack once after thinking too hard about that exclusivity and the responsibility and what it means. Eponine tells him to take it easy; after all it’s not actually his choice.)

 

He doesn’t see Enjolras again until two months later, when he is asked by Courfeyrac to do a photo shoot for some sort of project they are doing. ‘They’ turns out to be a whole group, and it’s a project about gender equality and all that, but Grantaire doesn’t listen much past “and we were thinking about putting Enjolras in a dress-“ because his head is sort of busy coping.

As he learns later, when he is able to not get turned on beyond comprehension, it’s actually a really good campaign and, while it is a lot of fun to argue with them and sort of play Devil’s advocate, he is – lo and behold – not only in it for ‘My Apollo in a dress’. Who would have thought.

 

He would like to say something like ‘It all went downhill from there’ (because that’s how his life usually works, with the violent end usually being a long stay at the hospital) but really, it doesn’t.

Apart from his crush, which gets a lot worse with every minute he spends in Enjolras’ company, but that was to be expected. 

They call him almost bi-monthly to discuss their newest ideas and eventually he just sort of starts going to their meetings. No one tells him to go and they all enjoy how he can pick apart their arguments with a healthy dose of cynicism and rile up Enjolras. 

One memorable evening, Enjolras actually thanks him for that. It’s a backhanded compliment and it takes Grantaire a while to figure out it even is one, but coming from Enjolras it’s pretty damn great.

In the end, they get great photos for their flyers and website and posters and he gets more and more acknowledgment as a photographer – and he gets Enjolras. Lots of Enjolras. Not only him, of course, can’t always use white cis-het men, but since he is not only their leader but also stupidly hot he is featured quite a lot. 

 

Jehan, a fellow artist, is perhaps the greatest help. He appreciates beauty like Grantaire does and has a great eye for locations. He also smiles knowingly and lets Grantaire do all of the touching and moving around and adjusting posture when it comes to Enjolras. It doesn’t take long until Grantaire discovers Jehan’s heaven-like poetry and soon  
after a couple lines from his feather decorate Grantaire’s upper arm. 

 

(He likes them even better because they cover the ugly scars on his shoulders with beautiful lyric.)

 

Eventually his colleagues at work even accept that nobody can have Enjolras except Grantaire. Everybody knows them by that point. Everybody knows the mysterious blond beauty with the passion in his eyes and how every photograph with him is such obvious prove of the photographers love. Which is fine, it’s easy to see if you take pictures of people for a living and Grantaire is willing to admit it to them. Since they will never, y’know, meet Enjolras.

Of course, deep inside Grantaire sees it coming. He knows it will happen eventually, Enjolras will find out about the whole ludicrous lusting and pathetic pining sooner or later, especially since pretty much everyone else seems to know already. In the meantime Grantaire covers it under layers of lighthearted mocking and teasing and sarcasm. Eponine once tells him quietly that at least words are a whole lot better than alcohol. He doesn’t cry.  
(Except, he totally does and did he mention how pathetic it is?)

 

The point being, he sees it coming, but he still sort of hopes it will take Enjolras a while. It’s not like the guy is known for his social skills, if Grantaire would get a quarter every time Enjolras doesn’t get he’s being flirted with he wouldn’t even have to sell photos anymore. If it wasn’t for Combeferre telling him otherwise Grantaire would think the guy is Ace. 

 

Now, remember the thing about none of his colleagues ever meeting Enjolras? It works out brilliantly until Christmas. To be exact, on the 20th, when Grantaire hosts his annual Christmas party with all of the photography students he has stayed in contact with after college. There is booze and crappy Christmas music and he must have texted Courfeyrac because some when around ten he, Feully, Bahorel and to Grantaire’s great surprise Enjolras crash the party. The others, Courfeyrac says, are busy and Combeferre apparently forced Enjolras to take a break.

 

Enjolras manages to get out of his coat. Barely. Then a high pitched squeal makes him flinch violently and Grantaire face palm: “Oh my God, you – he – that’s your boyfriend! You’re Apollo!”

And then everyone surrounds a shell shocked Enjolras and stares and someone pokes him and Courfeyrac might just die of laughter. “They know you!” he gasps, spontaneously hugging Grantaire and not moving a finger to help the distraught Enjolras out. “Grantaire, your photos, they know him, don’t they?”

Grantaire wishes to die. (Figuratively, for once.) “Yes,” he admits with an apologetic look, “That’s why I didn’t invite you. I sort of…expected this to happen.”

The perplexed, more and more deeply disturbed stare he gets from Enjolras is kind of adorable. “Why,” he hisses, “Why do these people think I’m your boyfriend?”  
It gets very silent around him. About a dozen people look at him expectantly. 

 

So Grantaire explains it to Enjolras, how the photos and with them Enjolras himself have become a bit of a phenomenon in the photography scene, because they are really good and all that, and because Enjolras is such a mystery. 

“They are not only good,” Grantaire continues, “It’s also quite obvious from the way I, uh, well, if it’s your job to portray people it’s pretty easy to see that I find you, um, attractive? And my dear colleagues,” here he stares them down, trying to convey a message without words, “well they kind of misinterpreted that and, how do you say, jumped to completely wrong conclusions, but here I am now to tell you that Enjolras is not my boyfriend and that’s all there is to say about it.”

Apart from the barely suppressed giggling from Feully, Bahorel and Courfeyrac, no one says a word. Until Emma, the girl that attacked Enjolras first, apologizes with disappointment clear in her voice, and then one after another his friends leave Enjolras be and return to chatting with one another and drinking and whatever the hell they were doing before.

 

Enjolras looks a bit panicked. “I am popular,” he whispers with wide eyes, “In the fashion scene?”

Grantaire shakes his head, unable to hold back a smirk. “Nonsense, just in the art scene. That has to be at least a bit better, right?”

The hint of a pout tugs on Enjolras’ lips, but he doesn’t talk about it anymore. He even manages to relax as the night goes on. They don’t get him to do karaoke, but he does chose a song for Grantaire to sing and Grantaire catches him humming along several times. 

 

(None of his new friends ask him about the alcohol that he doesn’t drink.)

 

When all of his guests are gone, Grantaire sits down heavily on his couch – and promptly jumps up again because they forgot to take Enjolras with them and now he is sound asleep on Grantaire’s couch, curled up all peaceful and pretty, clutching a cushion tightly to his chest. Grantaire remembers Feully saying something about Enjolras working for three days straight with less than five hours of sleep and those bastards probably did it on purpose.

It takes him a while to first wake Enjolras up enough for him to move and then half drag, half shove him to the bedroom where he drops him on the bed. Enjolras is not very cooperative, so Grantaire has to pull off his shoes and tuck him in and it’s not really romantic but still the best night of his life.

 

He sits down on the bed next to Enjolras because okay, so maybe he is a creepy fucker sometimes but he just can’t get enough of Enjolras, of the way his face looks even more angelic when slack with sleep, of his soft, rosy lips that form a dreamy smile – Grantaire could go on, but the next thing he knows he wakes up in his bed and Enjolras is gone.

 

(In the back of his mind a little voice says bitterly that at least he does seem to be able to sleep without either booze or pills, contrary to what he had known to be true for a long time. It hurts more than it helps.)

 

There is no note on the fridge, no text on his phone, almost no sign of Enjolras ever having been there except for his red scarf that he apparently forgot. Courfeyrac won’t answer his phone. Grantaire never got any of the other’s numbers.

Grantaire isn’t stupid. He knows it’s what he’d do if he had woken up to find some guy had climbed into bed with him after he passed out at a party. Hell, it happened to him before. The fact that Grantaire is aware of being a cuddly sleeper doesn’t help at all.

 

Again, Grantaire did see it coming. Maybe he didn’t think it would turn out this bad, but he knew something was bound to go wrong eventually.  
Whatever. He’ll cope.

 

(He doesn’t. It’s bad this time, and it gets worse when he notices that after not taking his antidepressants regularly he forgot to get new ones, and his are prescription drugs  
so he can’t just buy them and of course, like always, he ends up in a hospital after downing a whole bottle.)

(Eponine isn’t angry with him.)

 

Eponine curses Enjolras to Hell and back and tries to get some address out of Grantaire so she can go and do something, but after he explains that it really was his fault this time, no doubt, she gives up and settles with letting him sleep at her place for some time.

 

(It’s like back in the old times, Grantaire thinks bitterly, and he still doesn’t know where she hides all the things that need to be hidden from Grantaire when it’s this bad. She doesn’t even let him shave.)

 

It gets better eventually. 

 

(He gets his antidepressants eventually.)

 

And then, one day, he gets a call from Combeferre.  
He doesn’t recognize his voice at first, has never heard the man stumble over his words like this and it takes five minutes until they are on the same page.  
“A…misunderstanding?” Grantaire asks when he finally understands what Combeferre is trying to tell him. 

“Yes. You know Enjolras, he’s a bit of a – he freaked out and refused to talk about it to us for a very long time and we all thought you…” His voice trails off, and if Grantaire didn’t know him better he’d think there’s embarrassment in his voice.

“You thought what?” 

Combeferre clears his throat. “Well, apparently Courfeyrac had told you something about Enjolras. That we would encourage you trying to, uh, sleep with him.” Another pause. Then: “We thought you tried to rape him.”

Grantaire stares at his phone for a bit. It’s not entirely illogical, he thinks then, with his attraction being so obvious, and he did sort of force-cuddle Enjolras. “Okay,” he tries at last. “That. Uh. Explains things?”

“But!” Combeferre adds quickly, “He fessed up now. And of course you didn’t – I mean, it’s just because we haven’t known you for all that long. Still, we shouldn’t have assumed something so grave and we all want to apologize for that– and also you and Enjolras apparently really need to talk about your feelings, or else there will just be more misunderstandings and nobody here needs that.”

“’Our feelings’? I’m sure you mean my feelings,” Grantaire scoffs bitterly. He could swear someone on the other line, though not Combeferre, groans something about oblivious idiots.  
“I said what I meant,” is the very diplomatic answer. “So, would you like to come over to Courfeyrac’s house on Saturday?”

 

He goes. Of course he goes; if Enjolras is willing to forgive him and the others have already he won’t give up that chance. Also, he is very curious about the nature of Enjolras’ “Feelings”, since that is apparently a thing. He really hopes it isn’t endless hatred.

 

His and Enjolras’ first encounter that day goes like this: they bump into each other, they simultaneously say ‘sorry’ and turn around and then they stare at each other for either five years or half a minute, depending on who you ask. Then Enjolras slowly but surely turns a glorious shade of red and makes a sort of desperate, ridiculous mewl and literally runs away.

Like, okay, Grantaire has had people reacting badly to seeing him, but so far no one had actually fucking ran away before even exchanging actual words.

 

(Not even right before Eponine picked him out of the gutter for the first time.)

 

So that doesn’t go to well, but he tries not to think too hard about it. Only that he would really like to save that face forever on a photo, because aside from being completely and utterly inexplicable it’s also really fucking adorable. And then he would have to hide the photo, because Grantaire is a possessive bastard and no one but him would be allowed to see it.

Then, almost an hour later, it seems like they all are suddenly back in high school because they put him in a fucking closet and shove Enjolras in a minute later and then they lock the doors and someone, probably Jehan, tells them very serenely that they won’t let them out until they talk.

Grantaire waits until he can see at least the outline of Enjolras’ face. When he tries to talk however, Enjolras is quicker. “I hereby officially apologize for my friends and their  
immaturity,” he says stiffly. “They seem to think that-“

“And I think they are right,” Grantaire cuts him off. He goes on before Enjolras has time to protest, because they are two grown men for fuck’s sake, and if it is necessary they will talk about their shitty feelings like grown-ups. “I think,” He continues, “That it is unwise to leave all this crap unspoken since apparently that doesn’t end well. So I’ll just go ahead and apologize now.”

He takes a deep breath and wonders for a split second why Enjolras is staring at him like Grantaire just talked about how sexy Napoleon would look in a miniskirt.

“I apologize for partially undressing you without your consent,” Grantaire starts. “I apologize for sleeping in the same bed as you without your consent. I apologize for my nonconsensual cuddling and any bad touch my subconscious, sleep drugged brain might have thought to be adequate. I guess I also sort of apologize for not waking you properly and just getting you home as soon as I saw you lying on my couch. 

“While we are at it, I also apologize for thinking a lot of really unprofessional things during pretty much every photo shoot we ever did together. And for touching you more than strictly necessary. It was a shitty thing to do and looking back, considering that you didn’t know of my feelings, also really creepy and stealthy as fuck.”

This is when he notices that Enjolras is making choked little noises and trembling and looking absolutely horrified. Maybe Grantaire shouldn’t have gone into such detail, but he really does feel bad about all those things and it’s better to just spit it all out now.

It is in this moment that Enjolras utters the last words Grantaire ever thought he’d hear him say.

“I- I didn’t try to sleep with you?”

 

There is a very, very long silence.

“What.”

Enjolras twitches. It’s hard to tell in the dark of the closet, but Grantaire thinks he is red again. “I. Uh. The Christmas party. Your Christmas party. When I was drunk. I woke up next to you only in jeans and a shirt and you were almost naked and I was sort of draped over you and I know how I get when I’m drunk and I-thought-I-tried-to-have-sex-with-you-and-then-I-panicked-and-left.”

The last words come out so fast that Grantaire isn’t sure if he heard them quite right. Also: “Drunk? I thought you were just, well, tired. You barely had two beers.”

Enjolras refuses to meet his eyes. “I don’t drink much,” he tells the floor.

“And how exactly are you when you are drunk, if I may ask?”

“Uh. Affectionate? From what I am told I am very affectionate. One time in high school I was drunk and kissed this guy I had a crush on. I also have a bad habit of saying whatever comes to my mind.”

Enjolras now has his arms crossed defensively. “Anyways,” he changes the topic, “What- what were you even talking about just now, what unprofessional thoughts, what feelings?”

It takes Grantaire a while to answer, mostly because his mind is still busy fretting over the connection between drunk!Enjolras kissing a guy he had a crush on and drunk!Enjolras years later potentially trying to sleep with Grantaire.

“Feelings. Right. I thought that was obvious from the ‘me practically jumping you after the party’, but it makes a lot more sense if you don’t remember that correctly. So.  
Feelings as in, not platonic but romantic. Like in lusting after your pretty ass and pining after your pretty heart. All of it. It’s pretty bad, ask Eponine, I don’t stop talking about you. Also, it’s obvious enough that everybody knows but you.” He laughs nervously. “About the unprofessional thoughts, I don’t think you really want to hear that. I tend to get graphic. It’s an artist’s curse; I have a very vivid imagination.” 

He pauses, squints at Enjolras and raises an eyebrow. “Unless your into that kind of thing,” he adds then, tentatively, because if he has been listening correctly he might actually be allowed to do this now, “Because I am all for dirty talk, I just don’t want to make you feel awkward.”

Enjolras is gaping. His mouth is actually hanging open and he looks so absolutely lost and betrayed; it would be funny if it wasn’t so cute.  
“If everybody knew, why didn’t anybody tell me?!” He sounds accusing, frustrated.

Grantaire shrugs. “You have good friends who understand that it was not their decision to make?”

When Enjolras doesn’t answer right away, Grantaire moves a bit closer to him. Not close enough to be invading, but the intention is clear. “More importantly, you still haven’t actually told me your feelings.” He smirks and gently pokes Enjolras’ chest. “Go on, pour your heart out.”

The funny thing about Enjolras is that as much as he is usually a man of words, he has serious issues with expressing feelings. This is okay, because the flush in his cheeks and the passionate kiss that he gives Grantaire are more than enough and Grantaire has words for both of them.

It doesn’t take long until their friends grant them to leave the closet. They spend the rest of the evening holding hands like grade-schoolers and everyone makes fun of them for being hopeless romantics deep inside.

 

The first time they have sex it’s frantic and rough and Grantaire tries to burn the picture of Enjolras’ face in pure ecstasy into his brain. He is completely caught up in all those new emotions he gets to see, everything he dreamed of and so much more and he will have to take photos one time, one time he will make Enjolras get himself off just so Grantaire can preserve all these emotions for the rest of his life. It’s not even the lust, or the raw passion. As wonderful as those are, what Grantaire seeks to capture is the helplessness of Enjolras’ deepest emotions, all that joy and love and that strange bit of awe that makes Grantaire cry.

“Who am I?” he whispers, staring up at Enjolras who is still panting a bit and looking at him with amazement in his eyes, amazement that Grantaire has never before seen directed at him. “Who am I that you chose to let me into your heart?” 

He almost adds, Who am I that you think me something precious. Enjolras reads it anyways, and he smiles Apollo’s smile and it’s Grantaire’s, it’s all Grantaire’s.

 

When he wakes up he slides out of bed to get his camera. Then he spends hours sitting next to the bed with a cup of coffee, taking picture after picture of long, pale limbs and golden locks and light caressing gentle curves. He only wishes he could show Enjolras’ soul and heart in the photos, because his physical beauty pales when compared to his character. 

 

(One time, Grantaire wakes up to Enjolras caressing the scars on his shoulders. They only talk about it years later, but that day Enjolras is the one who takes dozens of pictures, and they end up being amongst the few that Grantaire doesn’t hate.)

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the parentheses are because Grantaire doesn't talk about his problems. Also it was supposed to be fluffy crack. Then Things happened. I apologize.  
> Comments and Kudos make me weep manly tears. And if I have learned one thing about the Les Mis fandom, it's that you guys like making people cry ;-)


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